


The Trial

by mijeli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bickering, Boys Kissing, Draco on Trial, Duelling, F/M, Grimmauld Place, M/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Wands, lots of swearing, preferred use of last names even when making out, sloppy research on British law and court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mijeli/pseuds/mijeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry hadn't initially meant to speak at Malfoy's trial. But then, he hadn't initially meant for a lot of things to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trial

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle if I made (Wizarding) law mistakes – court is my background, but what matters more are the emotions played out on it! I've wanted to explore the circumstances of Draco's trial for a long time, and I hope you like the result. (Feedback is as always much appreciated; and a sequel is in the making.)

** PART 1 **

 

On the day of the trial, Malfoy looked gaunt and pointier than ever. His face was white as a sheet and his hair, though carefully combed, appeared flat and floppy. Harry noticed that Malfoy's hands were clenched into fists the entire time Kingsley read out the verdict, but he never looked up. 

From his own spot among the press, Harry couldn't see as clearly as he would have from the defence bench. However, he hadn't told anyone that he might testify. He was tired of people's expectations. He only meant to speak up in case his testimony was needed to keep the prat out of Azkaban. Malfoy senior could rot there, for all Harry cared.

Narcissa Malfoy sat a few rows ahead, as close to the accused as they would let her. She looked perfectly still and composed, dressed in dark grey and with her white hands folded in her lap. 

Harry glanced to his left and right. It felt odd that, for once, the reporters weren't dying to pester him. Wasn't that what he'd always wanted? What _Malfoy_ had always wanted? Those days seemed like a lifetime ago. Harry couldn't look away from the peaky, frightened face on the other side of the room. As usual, Malfoy was dressed completely in black, only this time he looked as if he were attending his own funeral.

"... blackmail, foiled manslaughter, and repeated use of Unforgivable Curses, of which the Imperius and the Cruciatus Curse have been reported by witnesses." 

The prosecutor raised her head. She was a middle-aged woman Harry had never seen before – even beautiful, as far as he could be the judge of that. There were laughter lines around her eyes, but at the moment, those eyes were cold as she directed them at Malfoy.

"Mr Malfoy, do you have anything to say in your defence?" 

"In agreement with my client, I will take it from here," said Malfoy's solicitor. Harry was surprised by how much she looked like Mrs Weasley, rotund and rosy-cheeked. The colour of her robes clashed with a mop of obviously dyed hair. He couldn't help wondering how Malfoy felt about the similarities. "My client is still in shock and would rather not make any statements that could be interpreted to his disadvantage." 

The prosecutor shot a look of pure challenge at Malfoy, who still had his head lowered. He linked his long fingers, and Harry was almost certain he did so to keep them from trembling.

"I'm not sure we can spare Mr Malfoy's personal comment," the prosecutor finally said, nodding at the clerk to her right. Kingsley, in his position as the clerk, sat with his arms folded and an expression of concentration on his face. 

"There are no laws gainst it," said Malfoy's solicitor. 

"Correct, but you failed to deliver a medical statement to prove your client's incapability to testify. Therefore, there's no valid reason for him to refuse statement." 

Malfoy finally raised his head to look at the prosecutor. The defiance on his face that Harry was so familiar with, appeared washed-out by fear, and Harry wanted to shake him and yell that this was his only bloody chance. He was making things worse by refusing to comment. 

"Mr Malfoy," Kingsley suddenly asked, leaning forward on his desk, “do you consider yourself incapable of giving evidence?" 

Malfoy stared back at him, the fear on his face changing to terror. It was almost comical. His solicitor leaned over and whispered something in his ear, but Malfoy’s eyes flickered back to Kingsley, his hands still a tight bundle in his lap. "No." 

"Wonderful," the prosecutor said dryly and indicated the chair in the middle of the room with a sweeping hand gesture. Malfoy got up and moved to the middle of the room, and Harry noticed how thin he was and how even his obviously tailored robes didn't hide it. Only in the way he walked there was his old air of haughtiness that made Harry want to punch him in the stomach. It felt good that some things hadn't changed.

Despite Malfoy’s agreement to being interrogated, his solicitor took over the majority of the questioning. Nobody complained, as Malfoy’s answers were brief and snappish, and Harry could tell that he was making no friends in the courtroom. Every time Malfoy’s voice didn’t break, he went for the old drawl, and whenever he was accused of something, he’d pinch his lips until his solicitor took over. _Still the same coward he was at eleven_ , Harry thought angrily, but with a strange wistfulness all the same. For a moment he wondered whether a braver Draco would’ve fought on their side, in the end.

Malfoy’s solicitor was in the process of illustrating Draco's hardship during the war, what with a madman occupying his home and manipulating his every thought. She was obviously playing the pity card. The protocol writer scribbled furiously before his gaze shifted to the prosecutor. She leaned forward in her chair.

“Are you saying Voldemort’s presence in Mr Malfoy’s house provoked him to torture and kill?”

Malfoy’s head snapped up. “He would’ve killed my parents!” he snarled, then immediately flushed. He bowed his head and sunk deeper into his chair in what looked like an attempt to disappear. The prosecutor nodded with an unpleasant expression, but no one else in the room reacted. As Harry looked to Narcissa, she sat straight and stoically. 

“You did take the Mark at age sixteen, is that correct?” 

Harry was surprised the prosecutor would make it so painless on Malfoy, posing only yes-or-no questions. Perhaps the strategy was just to get him locked up as quickly as possible. 

Malfoy nodded.

“Anything to say to that?”

His solicitor seemed prepared to speak up, but Malfoy was faster. He shrugged, a gesture not as nonchalant as he was probably going for. “I had to take up my father's spot while he – was away.”

The prosecutor folded her hands. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “My family needed me to.”

Triumphant, the prosecutor turned to Kingsley, at whose right side the protocol writer was busy jotting everything down and splashing ink all over the parchment. “Let’s see it, shall we?” she said.

Kingsley nodded. “I think evidence wouldn’t be amiss.”

Without a word, Malfoy pulled up his sleeve – awkwardly, as his tailored shirt and robes were tight around the wrist and wouldn’t budge. After some fumbling with the cuff, he finally had it open and for the first time since the trial had started, Harry heard Narcissa make a small sound.

Everyone in the room stared at the Dark Mark, faded grey on Malfoy’s thin white forearm. Everyone except Malfoy. His eyes were fixed on his right armrest, as if he had no intention of acknowledging Voldemort's hand on him again. But Harry couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't stop himself from wanting to touch it and feel what it was like, _and Merlin, how wrong was that?_ Then Kingsley said “Thank you” and Malfoy pulled his sleeve back down.

They asked him a few more questions, mostly about his living situation, the spells he had used and who had taught them to him. When Malfoy was interrogated about mending the Vanishing Cabinet, Harry noticed, not without amazement, the impressed faces among both jury and press. Next to him, a page of Cheeky-And-Curious Parchment rolled itself up twice with excitement as the reporter scribbled down the few details Malfoy would give. Harry looked at him, cheeks tinted red with discomfort and hands folded tightly atop the table, and he couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. For once, Malfoy had done something impressive and now he wasn't even in a position to be proud.

“Very well,” Kingsley finally spoke up. “I have one last question for the defendant that I’d like to pose under Veritaserum. Ladies and gentlemen, the trial will be resumed in half an hour.”

Immediately the room broke into murmurs, and even the prosecutor looked surprised. Apparently she’d thought the sentence was in the bag. Harry’s heart began pounding rapidly as he replayed the trial in his head: had Malfoy given them enough reason to send him to Azkaban? If Harry didn’t speak up now, would he get a chance later? 

Malfoy looked defiant and frightened when the truth serum was mentioned, and when two wizards stepped up to him and ordered him to follow, he actually backed away. Harry watched, with a churning and unpleasant sensation in his stomach, how they bound Malfoy’s hands and gripped him by his slender shoulders. As they steered him out of the courtroom, he looked over to Harry and their eyes – Malfoy’s alight with fury and desperation – locked for one long moment. Only afterwards did Harry notice the coldness of his palms.

The break seemed to stretch and stretch, and Harry felt antsy in a way reminiscent of his Occlumency lessons with Snape in fifth year. He kept walking back and forth, not sure where to look or put his hands. Reporters kept approaching him – “What's it like to see an old schoolmate on trial?” – but he dismissed all their questions. There was nothing he had to say to them. Then he spotted Narcissa behind a Shield Charm and walked over to her.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Harry said as he stepped in front of her. She may have ignored Skeeter and her lot, but no one gave the Chosen One the cold shoulder. After a distrustful glance around, Narcissa lowered the shield.

“Mr Potter,” she replied coolly. “What a pleasure to meet you here.” Her tone suggested that there was nothing pleasurable about the situation at all, but Harry wasn't surprised.

“Yeah,” he said, and then decided to cut to the chase straight away. “Listen, I will speak for Mal— for Draco, if they need my testimony. I haven't forgotten what you did for me.”

Narcissa raised one of her thin eyebrows. “What I did for you?”

Harry looked her straight in the eye. “You saved my life when you lied to Voldemort.”

At the mention of the name, Narcissa visibly paled but kept her composure. She seemed deep in thought for a moment, and then returned her sharp gaze to Harry's face. She gave him a reserved smile. “I believe we owe you much more, Mr Potter.”

“I– No, you–” Harry shut his mouth, embarrassed. He realised she was right – they _did_ owe him much more, all of them did. Only sometimes he was bloody tired of hearing it. “That's not my point. I won't let them take Draco to Azkaban, if I can help it.”

Narcissa considered him coolly and very much looked like Malfoy's mother. Finally, she nodded. “We appreciate your effort,” she said with an air of closure and turned her head to the side. She was blinking rapidly, pointed nose twitching. Harry quickly stepped away and didn't look her way again.

Back in the courtroom, Malfoy wore the look of someone drugged to the brim with the truth serum, his heavy-lidded eyes moving swiftly with mistrust.

The prosecutor asked a couple of test questions – one of them involving Malfoy's shaving habits, which caused Malfoy to flush and Harry to wonder whether Malfoy’s body hair would be light as on his head. He mentally slapped himself for the thought.

“Mr Malfoy,” Kingsley said with his deep voice, “please retell the events of May 2nd exactly the way you remember them.” He sounded polite and respectful. “Leave nothing out.”

Malfoy started talking as if he’d never stop – Harry had never heard him talk so much when he wasn’t bragging. With precision in some parts and vagueness in others he recounted his memories of the Battle, of Greyback and the Carrows, the students he pushed aside carelessly and later found motionless on the staircase. When he re-told what had happened in the Room of Requirement, his voice broke twice. Harry’s throat closed as Malfoy mentioned Harry's own hand, pulling him onto the broom and into safety. Malfoy finished by telling how he sat with his parents in the Great Hall.

Kingsley’s eyes had never left him. “Do you regret your actions at all, Mr Malfoy?”

Malfoy was looking at the floor. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Harry's head was spinning from the memories stirred awake by Malfoy's voice. He let his eyes drift from the prosecutor to the audience and back to the jury. There were too many faces he couldn't read. What would _he_ be thinking, had someone told him all of this? Malfoy had done a number of cruel things, there was no way around that; but now Harry knew he hadn't believed in them. Not for long anyway. Surely that was enough for him to get away?

“The jury will retreat to discuss the verdict,” Kingsley said, rising, and the others stood as well. “Please keep your seats; we shall resume shortly.”

Harry shot out of his seat before he knew what he was doing. “Wait!” he yelled. “I – have something to say.”

When he looked over at Malfoy, he almost expected a sneer – _No wonder Saint Potter gets special treatment_ – only to find utter confusion on his sharp face. For a moment, Malfoy looked as insecure as his eleven-year-old self when Harry had rejected him. Then the mask was back in place.

“Mr Potter,” said Kingsley, “we generally don't have witnesses attend the trial before giving their testimony. How are you acquainted with Mr Malfoy?”

Harry looked at the Minister steadily. “We were schoolmates for six years.”

“Are there any objections to the circumstances of Mr Potter's evidence?”

There was a small, satisfied tug on the prosecutor's mouth as she shook her head. Her expression was positively spellbound. With a feeling of both dread and hope, Harry stepped down to the witness dock and took a deep breath. He knew all eyes were on him, especially Malfoy's, but he couldn't bear looking back at him.

It was when Harry sat that he felt it: a distinct pull from inside his pocket, as though something was trying to get out. Something pulling in Malfoy's direction. _The wand_ , Harry realised with a start, _it's sensing its true master._ The magic was weak, tentative, but when Harry glanced up at Malfoy his grey eyes were wide with amazement.

“Mr Potter?” asked the prosecutor and Harry's head snapped back. “Shall we begin?”

Harry nodded. “If you agree, I'd like to share a memory first.”

Not a day had passed in which he hadn't revisited that day at the Manor. Hadn't puzzled over it. The memory shone silver bright as it was taken and dropped into a vial.

*** ***

Kingsley rose from his seat first and the rest of the court followed. “Due to unforeseen events, we've decided to prolong our time for debate. The trial will commence in one week. Please contact the Wizengamot Administration for information on the exact time.”

Everyone began packing their files and a soft chatter broke out in the courtroom. Harry realised that they'd been dismissed – the trial had been paused. Blood rushed to his head as the tension of his interrogation finally released him. 

And Malfoy. Malfoy would have to wait another week for his sentence, remaining locked up in a house that no longer belonged to him, with only his mother and his regret to keep him company. 

Harry looked over to the convict dock, where Malfoy was arguing with a guard and then, free from physical restraints, rushed towards Narcissa. She took hold of his arm, her expression unreadable. 

Harry was surprised at how tall Malfoy seemed next to his mother. He could well remember the spoilt brat that he had been on the Platform back in their school days; Narcissa bending down to offer kisses, or to spell back a small lock of hair that had fallen out of place. This time, Malfoy stood between Narcissa and the room, determined to shield her from the incoming rush of reporters and what surely would be a vile spewing of hateful accusations on the entire family. For a moment, Malfoy even resembled his father, or who Lucius had been before he’d fallen out of the Ministry’s favour. An unexpected wave of sadness passed through Harry. Malfoy took his mother's arm and led her from the courtroom.

*** ***

“Why did you do it?”

At the sound of the familiar voice, Harry whirled around. He'd thought the Malfoys had already left the building and he had just been about to do the same. Malfoy had wisely waited until Harry was turning a corner, so they were alone in a corridor – who knew the jury's reaction on seeing them together. _Maybe that bint of a prosecutor will claim we're having an affair_ , Harry thought ironically. The idea sent an unexpected wave of heat through his body.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, straightening further so as to impress the few inches he had on Harry. “I asked you a question.”

“I heard you,” Harry retorted. “Why did I do what?”

“You bloody well know what. I didn't ask for your help.” The last word came out bitter, warped by old pride, and Malfoy's intense stare kept stirring something within Harry that he hadn't felt in – weeks? Months? Time had been an unreliable thing since the war ended.

He returned the stare. “You didn't exactly disagree in there.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes further. If not for his pallor and deep shadows under his eyes, he might have looked intimidating. _And if he had a wand._ At the thought of being without one, Harry felt a sickening sensation in his stomach. “So you don't have a new wand?” he blurted.

“That's none of your bloody business,” Malfoy shot back. 

“Well, I don't plan on keeping this one forever,” said Harry, patting his pocket, though that was exactly what he'd been planning to do. He hadn't intended to get into this precise conversation, ever, and also he felt a strange connection to the hawthorn wand – as if it remembered as well as him what they'd achieved together.

“Whatever, Potter.” Malfoy's thin lips twitched and a tint of red appeared on his cheeks. “Aren't you happy that I owe you my life already? Can't you just stay out of this?”

“No,” Harry replied, “and for the record, I didn't do this for you. I'm tired of the war and I'm tired of unfair punishments.” He swallowed hard, transfixed by the unexpected colour on Malfoy's pale face. “I meant what I said, you're a prick, but you don't belong in Azkaban.”

Malfoy gave him an ugly sneer. “Oh, you meant it? Did you also mean that part in which I was a coward and a fool who couldn't even do what I was told? I'm ever so grateful.”

“Yeah.” Harry looked at him hotly. “And believe me, that's more likely to save your arse than saying you enjoyed torturing Muggles.”

Malfoy paled, his hands clenching into fists. “I hate you, Potter.”

“Likewise,” Harry said, but in the same moment realised it wasn't true. There were reflexes when it came to him and Malfoy, that were too long-established to give up. The truth was, he hadn't actively hated Malfoy for a while. He drove Harry crazy, yes, and most of the time all Harry wanted to do was punch the git and make him see reason. But sometimes, like today, he wanted to stand up for him because, damn it, Draco Malfoy wasn't a criminal, and he most certainly didn't belong in Azkaban. He wouldn't last a day among the likes of Rowle or Lestrange.

Malfoy cast a look over his shoulder, as if to make sure they were still alone, then whirled around again. “I don't care about your hero complex,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Just stay away from me and my family.” His voice was quivering and his fists were still clenched so tightly it turned his knuckles white. This, Harry realised, was definitely one of the punch-him-moments. He snorted with anger.

“Fuck your stupid pride, Malfoy. You want to go to prison, is that it?” 

Malfoy pressed his lips together. It was a close call for Harry not to throw himself at him and wrap his hands around his throat.

“You're such an idiot,” Harry said, “the war is over. I thought we'd got over this.”

“Over what?” 

“Fighting.” 

“I'm never done fighting with you, Potter,” Malfoy said haughtily. “Even though you saved my life, and I owe you for that. But this,” he gestured down the corridor, “is none of your business. I don't need your help.”

“Well, maybe you do!” Harry had taken a step forward, barely restraining himself from pouncing. He was so close he could feel Malfoy's body heat – no wonder, it was scorching in the damn Ministry, and Malfoy had to be hot as fuck in that suit – and then Harry noticed his scent. It was a peculiar thing, noticing how Draco Malfoy _smelt_. But then, that scent had been around Harry for years, it was only natural there was something familiar about it.

“Maybe you do,” he repeated, suddenly taking pity. He knew that Malfoy had hated nothing as much as losing to Harry, as not proving himself as equal. “What's so bad about that? We both know how the war ended. You should grab this chance.”

Malfoy's lip trembled, as if he were keeping a countless number of offensive words to himself. “Yeah, rub it right in, Potter. I know that's what you really came for.”

“You don't know anything,” Harry said. He was so close he could see that Malfoy's pupils were tiny in the bright and ugly light from above, and he had a few scattered freckles on his nose and cheekbones. Close-up, he looked younger and less weary. “I didn't save your arse from the fire to watch it rot in Azkaban.”

Malfoy briefly closed his eyes, as if he were in physical pain. His lashes were almost white and there were tiny specks of perspiration on his high brow. “Just piss off,” he said, eyes opening and glaring daggers at Harry. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“No, Malfoy, you're going to tell me what your fucking problem is.”

“You!” Malfoy reached up as if to push Harry, but then grabbed the front of his shirt. “You are my fucking problem!”

Harry had little time to process why he wasn't pushing Malfoy away; why it felt _right_ to have him grab and shake him and feel his hot breath on his face. Confrontation – it was so, so much better than that broken silence in court.

“Well, get yourself out of this, then!”

Malfoy still held on to him, if not quite as tightly, and there was an expression of anger and badly-veiled hurt on his face. His agitation increased the potency of his scent – laundry, cologne, hair – and it wasn't just familiar, it felt intimate and exciting. Harry released a shaky breath as he noticed his own pulse quickening. He liked it. _Fucking hell, he liked it._

“I,” Harry said, because he had to say something. “Dumbledore offered to help you.”

“By betraying my parents?” Malfoy made an ugly face. “But what would you know about it, seeing that you never had any.”

“Fuck you.”

Harry's blood was boiling, his heart hammering in his chest – and yet, he didn't even consider taking out his wand. What he wanted was to land a blow right between Malfoy's eyes. To hurt him in the most physical way possible. This wasn't just another of their endless quarrels, their struggles for dominance; he didn't know what it was.

“How do you know about the old – about Dumbledore?” Malfoy asked, obviously forcing himself to. “Don't tell me he confided in you.”

“He did,” Harry said, “but not with that. I was there that night, on the Astronomy Tower. I was Petrified, so I couldn't come to his aid.” He almost smirked at Malfoy. “Or yours, for that matter.”

Malfoy sneered coldly, though he used to do better. His grip on Harry's shirt loosened further, and he looked as if he were about to give up, to admit that he needed Harry's help, had needed it too damn often for his pride to bear, and leave.

_I don't want that_ , Harry realised. He wanted to have this conversation, this – moment. It mattered.

It was his turn to grip Malfoy now, perfectly aware that he was wrinkling an expensive set of robes. “It was _not_ a failure, you idiot. For Merlin's sake, for once you did the right thing.”

Malfoy hardly bothered to glance down, just ran a hand through his hair, then dropped them to his sides. He looked defeated, and even though his brow lay still in a heavy frown, he'd relaxed his lips. Harry stared at them, thin and pale pink and dry. He wanted to ask Malfoy whether he was lonely, because he figured that he would be bloody well lonely in the Manor under supervision, with most of his friends awaiting trial and with no one but Narcissa and a couple of bitter house elves around. Not that Lucius Malfoy's company would've made the place any less lonely.

He looked so tired of it all, and Harry hated that look. “Malfoy–”

“He couldn't have helped me, Potter. Stop talking like you understand. And let go, you're ruining my robes.”

“Really,” Harry said, reluctant to let go, but when the moment stretched and stretched there wasn't much else to do. His hands fell and Malfoy reached up to smooth out the black fabric. “And now? What are you going to do until next week?”

Malfoy looked back up, an angry expression back on his face. “Seriously, Potter? How low, even for you.”

“That's not what I – God, must you be a prick about everything?”

“To you? Yes.” Despite his words, Malfoy made no move to leave, just kept absently straightening his clothes. Harry decided to turn this into just another staring match and kept their eyes locked. Not long, and Malfoy would give in – he always did.

This time, he didn't. Something was flickering in his eyes, but Harry wasn't sure he'd seen it before.

“Do you want your wand back?”

Malfoy's hands kept on with the motion, carelessly, but his lips parted, as if on their own accord. He stared at Harry with unconcealed surprise.

“I told you, I'm not going to craft it a shrine.”

“How disappointing.” Malfoy dropped his eyes to the pocket Harry had previously indicated. “I thought you were using it now,” he said bluntly.

Harry shook his head. “I have a new one.” He reached into his right pocket and took the hawthorn wand out. When his fingers wrapped around its cool and smooth handle, it felt right and secure as if he'd never held a different one. The thought of returning the wand to its rightful owner made him feel vaguely bereft. 

As he held it out, Malfoy looked at it but didn't make a move to take it. 

“I don't want it.”

“Malfoy, if this is about your pride again–”

“It's none of your business and _I don't want it_ ,” Malfoy barked, voice raised. The anger, poorly repressed, was back in his face. It had always suited him. “Put it away.”

Harry lowered his arm, but kept the wand in sight. “What the hell, Malfoy? I thought I'd – I was trying to be nice, you know.”

“Well, stop it! I don't want you to be nice! And I sure as hell don't want to touch that wand ever again.”

“Why?” Harry asked, puzzled; the pang of loss at the destruction of his holly wand was still strong in his memory. 

Malfoy gave him a strange look. “Potter, you really are a complete imbecile.” When Harry opened his mouth for a comeback, Malfoy just raised a hand, glaring. “I don't want to remember anything I did with that wand. Anything. Does that make sense to you?”

Harry swallowed hard as a bleak and sobering sensation settled in his stomach. Instead of being swamped by old memories, he felt left behind by their irreversibility. Not two hours ago, he'd sat in the courtroom and listened to Malfoy's crimes – had felt his resentment leaving him, replaced by a grim and quiet regret. Malfoy shouldn't have done many things, but they had happened and that was that. There was no way he'd be able to forget the past. All he could do was to get rid of whatever tied him to it. “Yeah,” Harry replied. “Yeah, it does.”

“Good.” Malfoy looked taken aback.

“You're not really trying to forget, though, are you?”

Malfoy only raised his chin, jaw tight. “There is _Obliviate_ to consider.”

“Yeah, I'm sure the Wizengamot will like that.”

“Potter, you're so daft.” Malfoy rolled his eyes, then said, “I should go.”

“I'll see you next week.” The words had come out before Harry thought about them.

“Fuck you.”

“You're welcome, Malfoy.”

It looked as if Malfoy were pushing himself off the wall, but he wasn't really, and Harry didn't step back to give him more room. There it was again, that scent and warmth and feeling that made Harry's skin tingle and palms grow cold. He was strangely reminded of his first date with Cho Chang, though the Ministry's second floor had nothing in common with Madam Puddifoot's.

They were staring again – had they ever stopped staring at each other? – and Harry's heart drummed through his head. A little illicit thrill ran down his body. Malfoy was cool as ever, but his eyes were alive now and of a very interesting darkness.

They were really close, Harry thought, really very close. Then something flickered across Malfoy's face.

“Potter,” he said, “back off.”

His voice was lighter, almost like a question, but Harry pulled back as if stung. _Something_ lingered in the air between them, oddly familiar as if it had always been there and Harry thought that maybe it had. Confusion and heat rushed to his head. Judging by the colour of Malfoy's cheeks, the same thing was happening to him.

“Don't trip over your own feet,” Malfoy advised, clipped, then stepped around Harry and headed down the corridor with graceful strides. Harry turned, looking after him with what felt like excitement. There it was – something new.

“Enjoy your week!” he yelled after Malfoy's retreating figure. Malfoy didn't react, but of course he'd heard him.

Harry hung back, waiting for his heart to slow down and for his clammy hands to regain their warmth. When exactly it had happened, he didn't know, but it felt like the day now was not the same he'd begun this morning. Dragging himself out of bed and into the shower, Harry hadn't thought there was anything left to surprise or upset him – things had taken all sorts of turns in the months since Voldemort's demise, and he sometimes feared he'd gone cold within. Breaking up with Ginny had only been one event of many indicating that. He knew none of his friends – not even Ginny – resented him for anything, but what if they should?

He looked down the corridor, to where Malfoy had passed through the door. Seeing him had done all sorts of things to Harry. Unnerved him, agitated him. Excited him. He'd expected to be affected by seeing the git again – in fact, he'd expected an urge to hex him on the spot – but this had got out of hand. Something unfamiliar had transpired, and Harry was no better now at ignoring it than he'd been in school.

With a sigh of disbelief, he walked to the exit. The halls had grown quiet during his argument with Malfoy, everyone else had left. On the ground floor he turned left for the Administration office, attempting to straighten his wrinkled shirt as he went. Malfoy had done a good job crumpling it beyond hope.

“Excuse me,” he asked the young woman behind the desk, “do you already have the time for the commencement of Draco Malfoy's trial?”

She smiled at him, just a little awed, then turned to a stack of memos. “Let me check.”

There was nothing, absolutely nothing reasonable about the fluttering in Harry's chest.

*** ***

 **  
PART 2   
**

 

The night following the trial, Harry dreamt of Hogwarts. He was chasing Malfoy down a hallway, the castle asleep. Whenever the other boy rounded a corner, Harry's breath hitched and broke the rhythm; then he turned and spotted Malfoy, whose blond hair gave him away even in the darkness. Every hallway looked the same as the one before, but they kept going and going and going. The distance to Malfoy didn't decrease. He never looked back.

When Harry woke, it wasn't with a start. He remembered no details from the dream, just the thrill and agitation of the chase, of running endlessly through a labyrinth of corridors. There was always anger and incomprehension simmering underneath when it came to Malfoy.

He rubbed his eyes, yawning. His heart was beating too rapidly to go to back to sleep, so he got out of bed and trudged down to the kitchen. The sky outside the window was still dark.

Harry had moved to Grimmauld Place after the war. He hadn't ever particularly warmed up to the place, but seeing that Sirius had passed it on to him, he chose to save himself the hassle of finding another home. After the break-up with Ginny, moving in with the Weasleys had no longer been an option, and Harry found himself more and more enjoying the solitude. For once, he was free and responsible for himself alone.

Yawning again, he poured himself a glass of juice. The kitchen window stood open and let in a soft breeze. It was one of the loveliest July nights so far, cloudy and warm, and Harry leaned out the window to let the air caress his bare skin. He drank slowly then closed his eyes. There was something so wistful about the wind.

Harry's thoughts drifted back to the dream. He wondered what had become of the Room of Requirement during the Hogwarts restorations, and whether Malfoy ever thought of it, too. The running in his dream had felt so _real_. Like they'd gone back in time and were living it all over again.

When Harry went back upstairs to bed, he tried hard not to think about the bathroom in which their chase had ended. It didn't work, never did. Eventually he fell back into sleep and dreamed of water.

The week passed without anything out of the ordinary. Ron and Hermione occasionally stopped by or invited him for dinner, and it almost felt like old times – almost. His two best friends' besotted expressions and frequent snogging would take some time to get used to. Harry was happy for them, he really was. Sometimes he longed for what they had, but at the same time he knew this kind of meant-to-be wasn't what he wanted. The only girl he'd ever been serious with had been like a sister to him, and frankly that was the reason it hadn't worked out.

Harry dreamed of Malfoy twice again, but couldn't remember any details, and by the time the second part of the trial came round, their conversation in the Ministry felt like a dream itself. It seemed surreal that they had spent at least twenty minutes in each other's company, not only without hurting each other, but actually having an in-depth argument. 

“Do you have to testify again?” Hermione asked, doing up his tie. Harry never managed it quite immaculately himself, and he felt the need to be dressed well today.

“Don't think so,” he said. “At least that's what I hope.”

Hermione tugged at the knot and frowned. “There should be a spell for that,” she mumbled, and Harry laughed.

“Tell me about it.”

When she was finally satisfied with her handiwork, Hermione stepped back. “Would you like me to come?”

“Um – why?”

“I don't know, are you nervous?”

Harry shrugged. “It's just Malfoy, remember?” The words sounded hypocritical even to his own ears, and he quickly turned to the mirror.

“Mhm,” Hermione replied, non-committally. “You look good.”

“Er, thanks?”

She grinned at him, rolling her eyes. “It's rare we get to see you all dressed-up.” A more serious look crossed her face. “This matters a lot to you, doesn't it?”

Harry kept examining his reflection, getting used to the ever-odd sight of himself in a suit. He'd given up on his hair long ago, but ran a hand through it anyway. “Yeah, though I couldn't really tell you why.”

“What do you think, why?”

The question was very much like Hermione, and then again it seemed to echo a much more mature version of her. Harry wondered when they'd all changed – or if.

“I want Malfoy to have a second chance,” he said. “They can't lock him up. He's a git, but he's not a criminal.”

“Hmm.” Hermione sat down on his bed, wriggling her feet. “You know I don't like him, but I actually agree. Unlike his father, he's still got a chance.”

The mention of Lucius Malfoy woke an old but omnipresent grudge in Harry's belly and he frowned. 

“Time to change.”

“What?” Harry turned.

“Malfoy, he's still got time to change.” Hermione looked up. “He's just got to want it.”

Harry turned back to the mirror, pulling on his collar and raising his chin to check for any wayward hairs he might've missed when shaving. “I think he does,” he said, “though, you know, he'd never admit it.”

“Mhm. Guess his pride is all he has left.”

“Pitying Malfoy?” Harry raised his eyebrows.

Hermione smiled ruefully. “Maybe a little? Not much for him to look forward to.”

“Is this where you tell me about your and Ron's engagement plans?”

“Oh, shut up!” Hermione squeaked, but she was laughing, and Harry joined in. It was plain as day that it was only a matter of time, but he knew his friends didn't want to be obtrusive about it. 

“No seriously, I think it's good you're doing this for him.” Hermione smiled. “Very mature.”

“Thanks, mum,” Harry joked, casting one last glance in the mirror. It would have to do.

*** ***

The number of reporters attending the second part of the trial was ludicrous. Harry puzzled over it only briefly, before two dozen of them lunged at him and demanded his statement.

“Why are you defending the son of a man who was out to kill you?”

“Is it true that Malfoy junior used an Unforgivable on you?”

“What are the odds Mr Malfoy will join his father in Azkaban?”

“I heard that war-time romance caused the change of heart –”

“So did I!”

That last one made Harry stop in his tracks. “Where did you hear that?” he barked in the mob's general direction, upset for a reason he couldn't quite define.

It was quiet suddenly, as if they all waited for Harry's next, headline-worthy comment. He felt the blood rush to his head, but held his chin up and scowled. “For your information, you heard wrong. Better double-check your source next time.”

“Mr Potter,” one of the reporters threw into the ensuing silence, “before your testimony, didn't the Wizengamot take justice seriously enough?” 

Harry blinked, nervous. At least it wasn't about his love life. “I can't be the judge of that,” he said. “I just hope they will do so today.”

When several knowing looks were shot his way, he groaned inwardly; leave it to them to interpret his every statement like an admission of devoted love. “If you'll excuse me now.” He squeezed around them, secretly taking hold of his wand inside his pocket. Crowds still flustered him.

Voices in the corridor raised once again, and Harry turned. 

Malfoy and his solicitor had arrived and were encircled by press immediately. Harry couldn't make out exact words in the flurry, but noticed that Malfoy's solicitor did all the talking – Malfoy himself, once again dressed entirely in black, had his lips pinched together and stared at the reporters with such contempt as if to compensate for his verbal restraint. Harry almost chuckled.

When they'd made their statement and got through the press, Malfoy spotted Harry. His scowl didn't quite vanish, but his lips relaxed and Harry thought he looked a bit more at ease. Relieved, maybe? Harry remained fixed in his spot, not wanting to look like he was running away.

“Potter,” Malfoy said as he approached.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied with a curt nod.

Malfoy's solicitor smiled politely and Harry returned the gesture. “Good morning, Mr Potter.” They slowed down just as much as was appropriate, then passed and rounded the next corner. Attempting to fraternise with a witness before the trial wouldn't leave a good impression, Harry gathered that much, but still he realised he was disappointed. What had he been expecting, that he and Malfoy would have a chat? If the trial ended to his disadvantage, Malfoy would go to Azkaban that very day, and wasn't going to have chats with anyone for the foreseeable future.

Harry's insides lurched at the thought and he pushed it away. He wouldn't let that happen.

Seven minutes later, he was seated in the courtroom – among the audience – and noticed that every last chair was occupied. Malfoy looked tenser than ever, eyes directed at nothing and no one in particular, while his solicitor shuffled files across their table. The jury took their seats and did the same. There was no one on the witness bench.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the prosecutor began, and the room fell silent, “we're here to continue the trial of Draco Malfoy, born on June 5 1980, accused of blackmail, foiled manslaughter, Unforgivable Curses and Death Eater activity. There are no additional witnesses reported, wherefore the Department of Wizarding Prosecution will pose its final questions to Mr Malfoy and subsequently adjudicate on his sentence.” She glanced at the rows of press. “In the name of the law, only truthful and verified information is to be collected and distributed by media representatives. Thank you.”

She sat down. “In light of Mr Harry Potter's most recent testimony and information shared with the Wizengamot, Mr Malfoy's sentence has been reconsidered.”

Harry glanced over at Malfoy, whose eyes briefly flickered to the jury. He was better at masking his feelings, but still not perfect. Harry could tell how hopeful he was. 

“In the first part of the trial, Mr Potter shared a memory. After examination, it is clear the memory is unaltered and authentic. File Qb, isn't it, Mr Tulpen?” 

The prosecutor exchanged a look with the protocol writer, who nodded and leafed through his own file. They simultaneously skimmed the page that was presumably file Qb. “The memory contains evidence that Mr Malfoy protected the identity of Mr Potter, Mr Ronald Weasley and Ms Hermione Granger in a life-threatening situation.” She looked at Malfoy. “I trust you know which memory we're speaking of, Mr Malfoy?”

Malfoy looked shell-shocked, his sharp cheekbones once again softened by dark pink blotches. He sat up, his back straight as a rod, and cleared his throat. “I think so.”

“Did you know Mr Potter shared this particular memory?”

“No.”

“Why not, do you think?”

“Potter and I don't talk much.” Malfoy glanced at his solicitor. “But I remember when they – were brought to the Manor.” 

“And even though you were aware of their identity, you decided against identifying them to Bellatrix Lestrange and your parents.” The prosecutor looked at Malfoy with her piercing eyes. “Why?”

Malfoy flushed even more, but met her gaze. “I wanted them to win.”

“And the memory was considered real by a capable jury,” his solicitor cut in. “Minister, if I may.” Kingsley nodded and she continued.

“Taking Mr Potter's memory and testimony into account, we have further reason to believe Mr Malfoy was pressured into his role in the war, and had switched sides long before his mother, Narcissa Malfoy née Black, saved Mr Potter. Considering this, and his relative immaturity,” Malfoy made a sour face at that, “I ask for Mr Malfoy to be judged as a minor. Furthermore, I believe reintegration into Wizarding society is the only way to ensure his future best behaviour and safety. Therefore, I request a sentence of public service rather than imprisonment.” She glanced down at her notes, then nodded at Kingsley. “Thank you, that is all.”

Harry had grown uncomfortably warm in the courtroom; so that was why he hated wearing suits. He wondered whether anyone would notice him taking his tie off, then thought of Hermione's meticulous work on the knot and refrained. 

The prosecutor rose and picked up her own papers. “Mr Malfoy was of age throughout the year before the war, therefore I request he be judged as an adult. Mr Potter's testimony does not excuse any of Mr Malfoy's actions as a Marked Death Eater. I pledge guilty and request an Azkaban sentence of three years, to serve as deterring punishment. It may be followed by a social reintegration programme. Thank you.” She sat.

Malfoy had turned white as a sheet as she read out the charges, but he managed a cold, detached expression all the while. When his solicitor leaned over to whisper something in his ear, he showed no reaction.

“Thank you all,” said Kingsley, “the jury will now retreat to discuss the verdict. We'll reconvene in thirty minutes.”

During the entire break, Malfoy didn't leave his chair, and neither did Harry. There was nothing for him to do outside the courtroom, and he certainly didn't want to deal with the media. He spotted Narcissa a few rows behind him, dressed in midnight blue and with that same, aloof expression she'd worn the last time. How could she remain this composed, when her son might about to be sentenced for crimes she'd asked of him? But Harry guessed that this was the precise reason why she sat here and endured it: she was facing the consequences of her choice. Maybe Narcissa Malfoy was a devoted mother, in her own way.

Harry resumed watching Malfoy – something, it seemed, he had been doing forever – only to find Malfoy looking back at him. Their eyes met across the room, and it felt like a spark had been ignited. Harry almost looked around to check whether anybody else had noticed.

Malfoy looked puzzled, and Harry could practically hear the questions spilling from his mouth. Malfoy's eyes weren't cool as usual, but heated as if he were aiming to make Harry even more uncomfortable. Well, he probably was. Only what spread low in Harry's belly wasn't discomfort at all. More alertness, like letting go of a Portkey.

Harry lost all feeling for a time as the warmth spread, until he swore it made his toes tingle, and _how bloody long had they been staring like that?_ Just then, Malfoy broke the gaze and a sensation of relief and loss washed over Harry. What was wrong with him?

As he studied Malfoy's profile, sharp and pale in the blueish light, Harry saw something familiar and yet felt utterly clueless. Old and new feelings crashed down on him, memories of Quidditch gloves and stick figures and of a secret door in the wall. He suddenly wished to be back at Hogwarts, and to relive those things that had made no sense.

When the jury came back into the room and took their seats, Harry felt his muscles clench up and saw it mirrored in Malfoy's tense posture. Kinglsey rose from his chair, papers in hand and looking at no one in particular as he read. 

“Draco Malfoy, age 18, convicted of Death Eater activity during the Second Wizarding War, has been tried by minor law, and is sentenced to a three-year probation and six hundred hours of public service. He will be stripped of all personal property and his vote as a citizen of Wizarding Britain until these hours have been fulfilled. Furthermore, he is not allowed to leave the country or engage in border-crossing trades throughout the duration of his probation.” He cast a brief glance at Malfoy and his solicitor.

“Mr Malfoy will report to a parole officer weekly in the first three months, monthly afterwards. Should he fail to do so, or violate any rules or laws during his probation, a three-year-sentence in Azkaban will immediately come into effect.”

When he sat back down, the room was quiet as if everyone were waiting for something else to happen. But Harry was only looking at Malfoy and seeing pure, naked relief wash over his pale face. 

“Thank you everyone for your participation and patience,” said Kingsley with an air of finality. “The trial is concluded.”

The room erupted in chatting and cameras flashing as people got up to leave. Harry got up too, if only to look over the reporters' heads blocking his view to the defendant's bench. Malfoy was talking to his solicitor, shaking her hand and eventually offering a smile of unveiled joy. It was a sight to behold, but before Harry could ponder this alien expression any further, a flurry of blue and blond in the corner of his eye distracted him. Narcissa had made her way through the rows of chairs, with equal measures of haste and grace, to get closer to her son. As Malfoy embraced her, Harry felt like an intruder but found himself incapable of looking away.

He was lingering outside, not quite convincing himself that he wasn't waiting, when Malfoy spotted him. Malfoy nodded curtly and for a moment it looked like he would come over, but then he turned back to Narcissa, who stood with her hands clasped and determinedly ignored everyone asking for her comment. Harry felt his stomach sink in a way he couldn't quite explain.

*** ***

Harry really had stopped expecting gratitude from Draco Malfoy – or at least he'd told himself to repeatedly.

Hermione had, too.

“Harry,” she'd started gravely, opening yesterday's _Daily Prophet_ to find two snow-white Malfoy heads and a cover story on the trial. “You didn't do it for his gratefulness, did you? You did it for justice.”

He'd shrugged and nodded, and hadn't been so sure.

“What you did was important.” As usual, Hermione had read the article at the speed of light, folded the paper and put it down again. “I never thought I'd say it, but I'm glad you managed to get him out of this.”

“Idiot ferret,” Ron had said from a corner, but it hadn't really mattered. Hermione had rolled her eyes, fondly and then turned back to Harry.

“Stop racking your brains over it.”

Harry had tried – he had. He'd almost stopped expecting anything from Malfoy, neither gratitude nor care. Which was why his visit came all the more as a shock.

“Potter.” 

Malfoy's voice was shaky, hands buried deeply in his pockets. He looked so out of place, standing on Harry's doorstep, that it took Harry a moment to recover.

“Malfoy.” They continued with their staring for two, three silent seconds, before Harry recalled his manners. “Er, do you want to come in?”

Malfoy nodded and pushed into the narrow corridor of No. 12 Grimmauld Place.

Before the doorbell had disrupted his peace so abruptly, Harry had been sipping a butterbeer on the couch, flipping through the many letters he had received since Malfoy's trial. He found it was a deed best done with the aid of alcoholic drinks.

Foregoing any more set phrases of politeness, Harry opened his fridge, took out two more bottles and held one out to Malfoy. For a brief moment, Malfoy looked like he might reject it, then he took the dark brown bottle with a short nod. Harry picked the Muggle bottle opener up from the tabletop and, without thinking about it, stepped close to Malfoy to open his beer. To counter the pressure, he had to support the bottle from the other side, and his hand brushed Malfoy's as he did.

Once again, his stomach jumped and sparks went flying. They seemed even more unnerving in the dullness of his kitchen. Harry stepped back quickly and opened his own beer. “Cheers.”

They drank, their swallowing loud in the silence. Harry felt alert, as though there were Snatchers on the other side of the wall.

“Much as I appreciate the – mundane offer,” Malfoy said after he'd thumbed liquid off his upper lip as discreetly as possible, “I came here for a reason.”

“Okay,” Harry said. Malfoy fiddled with the bottle label.

“Thank you for everything you did for me and my family. I know we – I know I owe it to you that I'm here.” Malfoy's voice was dry, as if he were going for biting without success. When Harry didn't speak, Malfoy frowned and put the beer down next to the sink. “That's all,” he added sharply.

“Well, you're welcome,” Harry replied, and he meant it. 

Malfoy looked at him questioningly, as if he were waiting for Harry to continue. When nothing came, he made a curt and strange move with his head and turned. 

Something snapped into place. Something _always_ snapped into place when it came to Malfoy.

“Malfoy,” Harry addressed his slim back. Dressed in loose slacks and a dark green jumper, rather than his immaculate suit, Malfoy looked much nicer. More _normal_. He looked good. “You're going to finish this, aren't you? One doesn't leave a butterbeer like that.”

Malfoy turned and shrugged. One of his eyebrows was raised – a gesture he had perfected. 

Without waiting for him to be done with his fussing, Harry walked past him and back into the living room. Even though Malfoy's presence made his skin prickle with something like discomfort, Harry didn't want him to leave. Ever since the trial, something about being in the same room with Malfoy felt right.

And it wasn't as though those letters – some of approval but mostly reprimands – would be gone by tomorrow.

Malfoy joined him in the living room where he awkwardly stood, one hand buried in his pocket and the other holding on to his bottle. Weren't they both skilled at making small talk, Harry thought, and almost laughed out loud.

It was in that moment that the silence was broken by an ear-shattering screech from the hall. Harry sprang up from the couch, whipping out his wand, and Malfoy jumped so hard he dropped his bottle.

“Fucking _hell_!” Only when he raced out into the hall – it was empty – did Harry grow aware of an undertone he had never heard in Walburga Black's voice before: delight.

“Finally!” she crowed at the top of her voice. “The ancient and most noble House of Black has returned to its rightful owner! No more half-bloods and blood traitors and scum to waltz our halls like they own it –”

“Well, they do,” Harry interrupted her harshly, stepping closer to the portrait and pointing his wand at her. “I still own this place and waltz its halls, if that's what you were referring to.”

Walburga made a sour face and raised her chin. She looked ruffled and neglected, and Harry guessed that keeping her behind locked curtains for so long hadn't done her much good. He wondered if there was movement in the portrait when no one made the mistake of uncovering it. “Filthy blood-traitor,” she said matter-of-factly. “But at least you have found yourself proper company now.”

“I didn't ask for your judgement about my company.”

“Disrespectful _boy_! This is my noble family's residence – how dare you question–”

Walburga silenced as if switched off, and, disturbingly enough, it was Malfoy's cologne that told Harry he'd stepped up behind him.

“What the hell,” Malfoy asked lowly, his eyes on Walburga's wrinkled face.

“Young Malfoy!” she screeched, and Harry winced. “Such a pleasure to welcome you in the family home. It's been so long since last an honourable wizard or witch has set foot into this house. Oh, it's a shame what this has come to! Oh, the filth I must watch inhabit these walls, day by day, night by night–”

“Last I checked, these curtains were closed,” Harry interrupted her again. “Not much for you to watch, was there?”

She released a long wail, and Malfoy used the break to turn to Harry, a questioning look streaked with amusement on his face. “What's the meaning of this?”

Harry sighed. “She's your – great aunt, or something? I don't know. This is the Black's family house, I – Sirius passed it on to me.” He swallowed; the memory of his godfather always hurt.

“So technically, it's mine?”

Harry frowned angrily. “No it isn't, because my godfather willed it to me.”

Malfoy had the decency to blush. “That's not what I meant. I just don't know much about my mother's family.” He fidgeted again, and Harry thought of something.

“There's a family tree in one of the rooms. It's got a few faces blackened-out – Walburga here is quite a piece of work. But no worries, your ancient and noble pure-blood family is safe.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Walburga picked that moment to recover and glare haughtily down from her portrait. Her expression softened, though, when Malfoy looked back at her. “Young Malfoy – Draco, isn't it? I do hope your family is well?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I guess that depends.”

“Do Mudbloods and blood-traitors still stand up to them, unworthy though they are?”

Harry had curled his hands into fists. When he glanced at Malfoy, he saw pride and regret fight an open battle on his face. Walburga Black was probably the only person Malfoy had faced after the war to whom the Malfoy name still meant something, and who was inclined to treat the youngest heir with respect.

A muscle in Malfoy's sharp jaw twitched. He turned to Harry. “Would you show me that room?”

Casting one last look at Walburga's eager face, Harry nodded and spelled the curtains shut.

Malfoy looked nothing short of amazed as they stood in front of the Black family tree. For several minutes, neither of them spoke and Harry watched him out of the corner of his eyes. He seemed to follow each line with a riveted expression.

“Is that –” he asked, and Harry followed his finger to the spot where Sirius name should have been.

“Yeah.”

They remained silent for a while, Malfoy stepping closer and walking left and right in front of the tapestry. He didn't stop in front of his own head, but he did when he got to Tonks'. Harry's stomach sank as he remembered her tripping over every carpet in the house, and the way she'd grow beaks and muzzles at the dinner table.

“I heard they had a son?” Malfoy said, surprising Harry.

“Yeah, his name is Teddy.”

“Mhm.” 

Slowly, Harry relaxed his hands.

“You know, you can put your wand away now,” Malfoy said without turning. “It's not like I'm going to attack you with my bare hands.”

Feeling sheepish, Harry put his wand back into his pocket. Some habits died hard. “My offer still stands.”

“And I still won't take you up on it.”

When they got back into the living room, the smell of butterbeer-on-carpet was heavy in the air. “Sorry I dropped my bottle,” Malfoy said quickly, and only then seemed to grow aware of his apology. He buried his hands in his pockets.

Harry performed two quick spells, almost smiling. He was glad to be away from that depressing room upstairs, and for some strange reason he was glad Malfoy hadn't left. He'd surely had a few opportunities by now.

“Would you like another one?”

“What?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, you didn't drink this one, did you? It's just polite to offer another one.”

Malfoy frowned. “In that case, it's just polite to say, _No, thank you._ ”

“You're an idiot,” Harry informed him good-naturedly and Summoned another butterbeer from his pantry. “It's not quite as cold, but I think it's okay.”

This time, he spelled it open.

“Don't you even, you know, want it back for small spells? Like opening bottles?” Harry knew that the Ministry was monitoring the Malfoys and that a certain array of spells had been banned for them. Certainly not the practical ones, though.

Malfoy shrugged, taking a few long sips. “Sometimes,” he replied.

“Why don't you get a new one?”

Now it was Malfoy's turn to roll his eyes. “Not keen to visit Ollivander's, as you may imagine.”

“There are other wandmakers in Britain –”

“None as good. Look, what is this, twenty questions? I can deal without one.”

Harry picked up his own bottle and took a sip. “Just imagining you doing things the Muggle way –”

“Funny.”

“I thought so, too.”

Harry flopped down on the couch, indicating for Malfoy to sit beside him. The act felt weird, as if circumstances were friendlier, but it fit. If they were facing old family trees and sharing butterbeers, they could sit on the same couch without throttling each other. As Malfoy sat down gingerly and as far from Harry as possible without toppling over the armrest, his eyes fell on the letters.

“Did I interrupt you doing fan mail?”

“Actually, those are about what a giant disappointment I am for speaking at your trial.”

Malfoy looked like he didn't know what to say that, even though his defences snapped back into place. He didn't take his eyes off the letters. “Yeah, well,” he finally said, “I'm sure it's hard on you to not be everybody's darling.”

“Mhm.” Harry took a sip. “I manage.”

He glanced up and met Malfoy's puzzled grey eyes. When Malfoy found himself caught, he scowled and leaned back against the armrest.

Harry's heart picked up speed. “Some of them accused me of having an affair with you.” He didn't know exactly why he'd said it – to unsettle Malfoy, probably, to share that stupid, irrational secret that had been somewhere in the back of his head all day. Malfoy grew stiff as a poker.

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, though his heart was still racing ahead of him. “Yeah, me too.”

They simultaneously took a drink, determinedly not looking at each other. When Malfoy spoke again, he was inspecting the torn label on his bottle. “I wonder where they got such an untoward idea of their saviour.”

“The affair?” Harry replied. “Well, I did break up with Ginny. That bit of _Prophet_ information was true.”

“I meant more the affair _with a bloke_ thing.”

Harry flushed to the roots of his hair, though it was impossible to say why. How had he started talking about this to Malfoy, of all people? He'd not even told his friends. He didn't even know whether there was anything to tell –

“God, Potter, so it's true?” Malfoy snickered, clearly enjoying the next sip of beer. For a moment, his eyes sparkled with mirth, and Harry was startled by the sight. “That's just priceless.”

“Stop that.”

“The Golden Boy, a flaming –”

“Stop!” Harry kicked him, feeling helpless and confused. The only ammunition he found was a rumour from fifth year. “You think I don't know Pansy was your pretence girlfriend? Everybody knew.”

Malfoy rose to the bait, just as expected, but Harry hadn't expected him to put down his bottle with force and stand up. His laughter died, leaving its ghost in the room.

“You're an arse, Potter.”

Harry got up himself and instinctively grabbed Malfoy's arm. Malfoy flinched, reaching for a wand that wasn't there. His wrist was cool and bony under Harry's palm, but not as fragile as it looked. There were strong sinews, taut beneath soft skin.

“Come on,” Harry said. “I really think you should take your wand back.”

“And I told you I don't want it – god, how daft are you?”

With a speed and agility that belied the half litre of butterbeer already in his system, Harry whipped out his own wand and pressed it into the hollow of Malfoy's throat. The soft white flesh budged under its tip and left the blueish veins standing out. “And what,” Harry said roughly, quietly, “would you be doing now?”

A moment transpired in which Malfoy looked down the length of Harry's wand. It was strange, Malfoy being taller and yet entirely at his mercy. Then Malfoy's eyes shot up, alight with dare and old malice, and he pressed his mouth against Harry's.

It took Harry just a second to recover from the shock, but when he did, Malfoy had wrestled the wand from his hand.

“That,” he said coolly, twirling it in his long fingers, “is what I would be doing.” 

Harry gaped, mind whirling. “I can't believe you did that.” What he couldn't believe was his own reaction to what Malfoy had done: the way his heart raced and skin itched to get closer and feel it again. To convince himself that it had been real.

Then Harry remembered the joke was on him, and he pushed Malfoy, hard.

Malfoy staggered back and held up Harry's wand, but Harry didn't care – he was furious now. Of all people, it had to be _Malfoy_ to discover this something he wasn't prepared to admit yet. It had to be sodding Malfoy, who always got under his skin, to hold his secret against him. Harry shoved him. Malfoy almost toppled over the couch table.

“Watch it, Potter!” he barked, wand aimed at Harry's chest.

“You watch your mouth,” Harry retorted. “What do you think you're doing? I didn't save your pathetic arse for you to – Give that back!”

“I don't think so.” Despite being armed, Malfoy kept walking backwards until his back hit the door frame. In his eyes, something dangerous glinted as if it were beyond his control. “Back off.”

Harry's breath came roughly. He had no idea when the mood had switched like that. “Give back my wand, Malfoy,” he said, voice low and raspy. The curtains began flapping and the letters on the table drifted to the ground, as if moved by a ghostly breeze. Malfoy's eyes widened, but the glint didn't disappear.

“Or what?”

Malfoy looked down, and their eyes locked again. Harry's heart thundered in his head, peeling any and all reserve off him until he was left vulnerable and yearning. He wanted it – wanted to smell Malfoy, taste him, touch him with intent. Maybe he'd been wanting it ever since that stupid meeting in the Ministry corridor, or since Malfoy had held on to him as they escaped the Fiendfyre. Maybe he only wanted it now that he'd had a glimpse of what it was like.

“Fucking prat,” Harry said, for good measure. Then he gave in, he just _gave in_ and grabbed Malfoy's wand arm. With the other hand he gripped the sharp jaw and angled Malfoy's head.

Their lips touched with such force that Harry's nose hit Malfoy's cheek, but Malfoy was softer than he looked – his hair was soft, his mouth, his neck. Harry touched it all. Every touch burned like fever.

“Pwter,” Malfoy mumbled, but it was no use, and so he parted his lips and suddenly it was too much. Harry hardly heard his own gasp over the rush of blood in his head. He felt one of Malfoy's hands on his hip and the other in his hair, pulling and clenching. Painfully. It was the good kind of painful, because Malfoy wasn't going anywhere. 

Harry gripped Malfoy's shoulders for balance, shifting bone and muscle beneath the soft cotton of Malfoy's jumper. He tasted Malfoy, breathed into his mouth. None of this was like Ginny, or Cho; every touch harder, harsher, more immediate and angry. Even though Malfoy had looked perfectly shaved, there were tiny stubbly hairs in front of his ear and along the curve of his jawline. He was thin beneath his jumper, but solid. He smelled like a man and made an unguarded sound when Harry slipped his fingers just under the hem of green. 

“Malfoy,” Harry whispered and looked – he had to _look_. Malfoy's eyes were dark and glazed over. He looked like he always had, only dishevelled and pink in the face. That tight, hateful face with no hate left to display, and _he smelled so fucking good_ Harry wondered how it had taken him so long to notice. He hovered in mid-air until Malfoy's eyes fell back to his lips.

They managed a better rhythm this time, less clacking teeth and more stroking tongues, and Harry felt a stir in his groin. As if the desire was mirrored, Malfoy stepped even closer, pressing his abdomen against Harry's. It was _so hot, so hot, so hot_ \-- Harry's jeans were too tight, the inside of their brass button poking into his flesh. He felt shaken by vertigo, and Malfoy was shaking too, his breath coming erratically and his hands grappling and so strong and going for –

_Crack!_

They broke apart so fast their spit lingered on Harry's lip. He whirled to his right to find Kreacher next to the coffee table, bowing so deeply his nose disappeared in the carpet.

“Master Harry,” the elf ground out with audible effort. “Kreacher will retire now, if he may.”

Harry reached up to flatten his hair – though what for, he didn't really know – and nodded. 

“Er. Of course.” When he turned, Malfoy was already heading for the door. Just like Harry had, he ran a hand through his hair, even if the result was quite different. The feel of his silky blond strands was still fresh in Harry's memory.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, feeling confused and aroused and a bit as if he'd lost his mind. “I –” _Come back_ , he wanted to yell, and _Don't you dare leave now._

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. He looked flushed and funny, so it didn't work that well. 

“So I guess it's true after all.” His voice was thick. “The Golden Boy is a poofter.”

Heat rose within Harry, a surging flame of rage and desire. _Yes, _he wanted to shout at the top of his voice, _yes, he is, and he wants your Death Eater hand down his pants!___ What he said was, “Going to tell Skeeter now?”

“If she pays me well.” Malfoy's cheeks were crimson and he looked prepared to fight. Harry didn't like it. He wanted Malfoy to flush from his touch, and not from fury.

They stared at each other, the air ignited, then Malfoy turned to leave. Harry's heart toppled and he remembered only in the last moment. How did he forget?

“Give me my wand.”

Malfoy turned, eyes glinting. “You took mine, I take yours.” He patted his pocket. “Looks like we're even.”

“Like fuck we are.”

When Harry threw himself at Malfoy, several things happened in quick succession. Malfoy swung Harry's wand and yelped in surprise as his spell hit something in the back of the room. Harry turned to see what it had done to find Walburga Black's curtains ripped and dangling to the floor.

“Potter – did you see that?” Malfoy's voice was bright with excitement, if barely audible above Walburga's screeching. “It works for me!”

Harry turned back, breathless. “You used my wand.”

“ _No respect for the elders! I expect grace from a pure-blood wizard of your heritage and upbringing –_ ”

“Shut up,” Harry shouted, and then remembered that he'd never taken Malfoy's wand out of his pocket after the trial. With two leaps he made it to the coat rack and wrenched the hawthorn wand from his jacket. He pointed it at Walburga and the remains of the curtains closed.

Malfoy still hadn't moved, but looked at Harry smugly. “You know, I think I'm keeping this one.”

Harry raised the hawthorn wand, which felt strong and pliant in his hand. Just like it always had. “Oh, will you?” 

“Unless you try to get it back.”

“You bet,” said Harry, locking the door with a flick. He couldn't help the grin spreading on his face. “Scared, Malfoy?”

Malfoy didn't look scared at all.

*** _fin_ ***


End file.
